


Applesauce

by ScarletteStar1



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Champagne, Character Study, Drabble, F/F, Love, Lust, Obsession, Villanelle's childhood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:53:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22808929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletteStar1/pseuds/ScarletteStar1
Summary: Villanelle is obsessed from the very beginning. . .
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	Applesauce

**I**.

The child fell.

The child fell and the adults laughed.

So, the child bit the hand of the adult that tried to pull her to standing. She bit it hard. Hard enough to draw blood.

“Fucking fuck!” The woman screeched.

“She’s got hard teeth,” the man said through his laughter. “Super hard little teeth for biting!”

“Oh, yeah,” said the woman as she smacked the child across the face with the back of her hand. Then she pinched the child’s face and brought it close to her own. “Maybe we should pull out all those pretty, pearly teeth that are so strong for biting!”

“Now now!” The man said.

“Now now nothing! The little bitch bit me!”

“A toothless child will not fetch nearly as pretty a price,” he crooned. “And your bite will heal.”

“Very well then,” the woman said and hit the girl across her face again, just to prove her point.

**II.**

Villanelle bit into the apple.

It was crunchy.

It was sweet.

Her teeth were sharp and so was her mind. The apple made her think of love and satisfaction.

Juice dripped down her chin.

**III.**

“Oh, Eve,” Villanelle sighed. “We will have so much fun times.” She remembered the flustered woman playing with her hair in the hospital bathroom. It was enough to make her giggle. She’d told her to leave her hair down, and she did! A simple suggestion taken to heart. Villanelle put her own hand on her chest to try and feel her heart beat. “Eve. Eve. Eve.” She recited her name as she blinked her eyes. She reminded herself the heart beats in three, like a waltz. The woman who turned her back left in a tang of anxiety, a passion of apples. 

**IV.**

“What the fuck is all of this?”

"I don't know what you mean, Constantin."

"There are cores everywhere. It's like the fucking Garden of Eden in here and I do not doubt you have snakes at the ready to attack me." 

"You are being a baby and a BORE!!!" Villanelle shouted and reached for a bottle of champagne. 

"Oh, is that so?" Constantin chuckled. 

“I am making applesauce.”

“And why the fuck are you making applesauce?”

“It is an old family recipe,” Villanelle said with a little smile and shrug.

“You have no family,” Constantin said.

“Constantin, you are such a grumpy old bear. You know, you could be a silver fox, but the way you carry on, you will never be anything but a grumpy old bear. Stinky too.” She wrinkled her nose for effect. Constantin rolled his eyes. Villanelle tossed back the bottle of champagne and drank deeply. 

“We have an appointment with your therapist, Villanelle,” he said.

“Well, let’s push it back and we can bring him a lovely container of fresh applesauce, eh?”

“Villanelle, You have never shown any interest in cooking before.”

“And?” Villanelle looked evenly at Constantin. The apartment filled with steamy cinnamon and clove, with the dreamy pectin of apple and a hint of ginger. It briefly crossed her mind to leap over the counter with her coring knife, to stab him in his throat, to bite his lower lip. Oh, how she would laugh at the expression of surprise and frustration he’d make as she bled him dry. But instead, she brought a wooden spoon to her lips. “Mmmm. Tastes so nice.”

**V.**

She eats the applesauce in bed from a little bowl with a little spoon.

She waits for knowledge or feeling or anything to grace her lithe naked body.

Frustrated, she bites her wrist. She bites it until she breaks her own skin. Her nose and forehead wrinkle with the exertion. Her pussy is wet. She could bring her fingers down and relieve herself, but she doesn’t. She’s almost furious at how alone she is, in her bed, with her fruit.

Finally, she curls on her side. “Eve Polastri,” she sighs. She says it again, “Eve.” The first syllable is much like a tide coming in on a shore. It promises something “Polastri,” the other syllables are like the rumbling out of the water, or breath, or the final steps of a waltz. “Eve Polastri, Eve Polastri, _Evepolastrievepolastrievepolastri._ . .” she chants it over and over again as ginger and clove fills her nostrils, and there is so little comfort, and she cannot sleep.


End file.
